Like A Bridge
by Collegekid2006
Summary: Henry's world comes crashing down when Shawn is diagnosed with Leukemia.In a time of crisis, can the Spencer family including Shawn's Mom put aside old wounds and come together?
1. Chapter 1

"Dad, do I have to do it?" Shawn asked pleadingly.

The two were standing in front of the bathroom mirror. Shawn's eyes were darting nervously back and forth between his own reflection and Henry's.

"Shawn, stop being dramatic. You can do it now, or you can wait until it all falls out on its own. It's your call."

"Fine," Shawn huffed, picking up the hair clippers from the bathroom counter. He sighed and turned them on, wincing in anticipation of the horrors to come.

It just took was a few swipes over his head, and it was over. All his hair lay scattered over the tile floor. He kicked at the tufts absently, almost as if he was resigning himself to his fate.

It took a few minutes before he could finally bring himself to look in the mirror.

"Damn," he groaned once he got up the courage. "I look like you!"

"What does that mean?"

"Sorry. Nothing personal. It's just…different."

Shawn ran his hand over his now completely bald head.

"I feel like a tennis ball."

"You'll get used to it."

"I guess."

He sighed again as he stared at his brand new, almost unrecognizable, reflection.

"I don't care what anyone says. Leukemia sucks."


	2. Chapter 2

Henry paced the corridors of the hospital, trying not to think.

It wasn't working.

_I should be in there…_

The thought kept coming back, but he just couldn't bring himself to go into the room and face Shawn.

Not right now.

He had been there when he had shaved his head.

He had been there for all the blood and bone marrow tests. He had even gotten the tests himself to see if he was a match. But seeing Shawn in the hospital bed, a needle in his arm…and that poison slowly drip, drip, dripping into his bloodstream…

That was more than he could do.

_I should be in there…_

Henry was so lost in his thoughts that he almost walked right past Dr. Hastings.

He would have, if the doctor hadn't stopped him.

"Mr. Spencer, we have to talk."

Henry stopped and leaned against the wall, still in an almost daze-like state.

"What is it?"

"Does Shawn have any siblings?"

Henry's heart began to pound faster.

"No. Why?"

"You're marrow test results just came back…"

He didn't have to be told the rest.

"It's not a match."

"No. I'm sorry. Is there anyone else closely related we could test?"

Henry shook his head slowly.

"No…just his mother, but she hasn't been around in years."

"Do you know where she is?"

"I don't know. I haven't spoken to her…"

"Mr. Spencer," Dr. Hastings' voice was suddenly very grave, "Shawn needs a bone marrow transplant. Soon. Now. The chemo is working, but it's only a stopgap. If she is the closest living relative, she needs to come in for a test as soon as possible."

Henry nodded stiffly.

"I have her number at home. Somewhere…"

At least it was an excuse to go home and not see Shawn again…

He left the hospital quickly. It didn't take him long to find the scrap of paper with Melanie's number on it.

_Please don't have a new number…_

The phone continued to ring on the other end until the voice mail finally came on.

_Hi. It's Mel. Leave a message._

_Beep._

Henry hesitated.

What was he supposed to say?

"Hey, Mel. It's Henry…call me as soon as you get this. It's about Shawn…"


	3. Chapter 3

"Henry?"

In that one word, spoken over miles of telephone wire, Henry could hear everything.

Panic.

Terror.

Everything he had been refusing to feel for weeks. At least now someone else was feeling it, too.

In some perverse way, that actually made him feel better.

"Hi, Mel."

"Don't 'Hi, Mel' me! What the hell is going on? What do you mean there's something wrong with Shawn? Is he okay? Did he wreck his bike?"

"No, no. Look, I don't want to talk about it on the phone—"

"Well, tough luck! You can't leave me a message like that and then expect me to--"

"Look. Mel. Can you just come down here? Please? I'll explain it when you get—"

"I'm not going anywhere until you tell me what happened to my son!"

This was it.

The last straw.

It was just too much like fighting with Shawn, which in and of itself was too much like banging his head against a brick wall.

It all came pouring out of him like boiling, venomous lava.

"He has leukemia! Okay? Are you happy?!"

He hadn't actually spoken that word aloud yet. Like if he didn't say it, it wasn't true.

There was silence on Mel's end.

"What?" She asked finally, her voice suddenly quivering.

"He didn't want you to know. He made me promise…I wouldn't have even called you at all, except…"

"What?"

"Just get down here. Tonight."

"I—"

"For once in your life, just listen to me, Mel."

"I'm coming."


	4. Chapter 4

The truck pulled into the driveway and came to a stop. Henry jumped out, but Shawn remained in the passenger seat, his arms folded irritably across his chest. He stared out the window, refusing even to look at his father.

"Shawn, get out of the truck," Henry ordered, knowing he was wasting his breath.

"No."

"Shawn."

"I can't believe you called her! You promised!"

Henry slammed his door and stormed into the house, leaving Shawn to stew alone in silence.

Two minutes later, he reappeared by the passenger door, wrenching it open and nearly sending Shawn sprawling to the ground.

"What do you want me to say, Kid?" He demanded hotly. "You want me to say I'm sorry? Fine! I'm sorry. I'm sorry my damn marrow isn't a match for yours. I'm sorry you don't have that little brother you never wanted. I'm sorry that right now the only thing stopping me from completely losing my mind is the thought that maybe, just maybe, your mother might be able to save your life. But mostly, Shawn, I'm sorry you're a selfish ass."

That one hit the mark. Shawn's head whipped around, his sallow eyes narrowing at his father.

Henry wasn't daunted by the rancor.

On the contrary, he almost seemed fueled by it.

"You're not the only one going through this, pal." He continued. "You're not the only one. So get over yourself, Shawn. Get over yourself, and get your butt in the house. Now."

He stormed inside once again, leaving Shawn's door dangling opening.

Shawn followed a few minutes later, closing the screen as quietly as possible so Henry wouldn't hear him enter.

Of course, that didn't work.

"Your stuff is upstairs," Henry called from the kitchen. "In your old room."

Shawn followed the voice and collapsed into one of the chairs around the table.

"I don't have to stay here, you know," he mumbled.

The truth was, he wanted to go upstairs. He wanted to fall into bed and sleep forever…but it sounded like so much effort and he was just too tired.

Too tired…

"Fine," Henry shrugged. "Then take the truck and drive home."

Shawn scowled. He could barely sit upright that long, much less muster the energy to actually drive.

His father knew that.

"I'm not an invalid, Dad."

"Then take the truck. It's okay. I'll pick it up tomorrow."

"I hate you."

"Don't start. It's been a long week. Your Mom--"

"Where is she?"

"I don't know. Probably picking up something for dinner."

"I can't eat. I can't even think about food without throwing up."

"Yeah, well…you try telling her that."

Shawn groaned, resting his head on the table.

Within moments, he was sound asleep.

Henry rolled his eyes, but quietly lifted him out of the chair and carried him upstairs.

_Damn, he's lost a lot of weight…_

As he gently lay Shawn in his bed and turned out the lights, Henry was overwhelmed by an impulse.

One he hadn't had since Shawn was four years old.

He ran the tips of his fingers over the crown of Shawn's head, mussing what little hair was there, and smiled to himself.

"Sleep tight, Kid."


	5. Chapter 5

Shawn made the cab drop him off a block away from the Department.

He didn't want anyone to know he still wasn't well enough to drive himself. He was feeling somewhat better now that he was between chemo treatments…but not that much.

By the time he reached the station, he was winded and completely exhausted. But at least he walked in on his own two feet.

He slipped past Lassie and Jules without them noticing and snuck into the Chief's office, plopping down in her chair and flinging his feet up on her desk.

Just like old times.

She didn't even bother trying to disguise her shock when she walked in and saw him.

"Mr. Spencer!"

"Hey, Chief."

"What are you doing here?"

He couldn't help noticing that her eyes were darting around the room; now looking at the floor, now at the wall, now at some invisible point on the window behind him.

But never at him.

Never at him.

_Do I really look that bad?_

"Actually, I was getting ready to enter a Donnie Wahlberg in_Sixth Sense_ look-alike contest and I wanted your input. I think I'm a shoe-in. What do you think?"

"I'm sorry?"

"A case, Chief. I'm here for a case. I saw a blonde in Interrogation Room C whose aura was just screaming for a psychic touch…"

Chief Vick dropped her files on the desk and looked down at Shawn, her face painfully sympathetic.

"Shawn, listen--"

"What?"

_God, I hate that look. It's the only look I see anymore…_

She sighed and ran her finger through her hair, searching for the most tactful way to say something…

"Shawn, you're sick."

"I am?" Shawn gasped sarcastically, clapping his hand over his mouth in feigned shock. "And here I thought I just had the world's crappiest HMO. I was wondering why they kept pumping me full of poison."

"You can't handle a case right now. What if something happened to you? The Department doesn't have the insurance to cover--"

Shawn didn't wait for her to finish. He kicked the desk and stood up as quickly as his wobbly legs would let him.

"I can't handle a case?" He repeated scornfully. "I can't _handle_ a case? What I can't handle is people treating me like I'm a damn baby!"

"I'm not--" Chief Vick started to protest, but Shawn waved her off.

"No, no. Of course not. You've just been in here for five minutes and not once have you told me to get out of your chair or you'd have my butt permanently welded to it."

"I thought you were tired…"

"I'm not tired!" Shawn lied through his teeth. "I'm just sick of being…"

"Sick of being what, Shawn?"

"_Sick_!"

He kicked the desk again and sank back into the chair.

"I don't want to be sick. I just want to be the annoying, irresistible maverick with the out-there theory that turns out to be right. I just want to be me again. Please. One case."

"I'm sorry, Mr. Spencer. I can't allow it. Once you're better…"

She spread her arms helplessly, appealingly.

Shawn nodded laboriously, closing his eyes as if every breath was painful.

Finally, he stood up again.

"I'll see you around, Chief."

He stalked past her, not looking back once.

He was almost out of the station when he heard a familiar voice behind him.

"SPENCER!"

He spun around just as Lassiter marched up to him.

"What do you want, Lassie?"

"What the hell are you doing here, Spencer?"

"What?"

"I saw you poking around the Chief's office. I swear if you're here to stick your nose in one of my cases, I'm going to cut it off and feed it to you one bite at a time."

For a second, Shawn was taken aback. But then he thought he noticed the slightest trace of a smile flicker across the edges of Lassie's mouth.

He smiled back.

"Oh, come on, Lassie. You know you couldn't crack an egg without my help."

Lassie spun on his heel and marched away in supposed indignation. Shawn shook his head and, with his first real smile in weeks, stepped back outside into the afternoon sun.


	6. Chapter 6

Shawn was laying in the hospital bed, trying to ignore the dull but constant pain in his arm and suppress the perpetual desire to throw up.

He opened his eyes weakly when he heard the door open.

"Gus," he half-grinned, trying to sit up. "What are you doing here? I told you I wasn't starting the next round of chemo until next week."

"Yeah, you did. But I wanted the truth, so I asked your Mom."

"You went behind my back? Gus! How sneaky and underhanded of you."

"Are you kidding me?" Gus snorted, sitting on the edge of the bed. "The only reason I'm still alive is because I make it my policy to always assume you're lying."

"Oh, come on!"

Gus raised his eyebrows and began counting on his fingers.

"Uh, how about the Roman candle incident?"

"We were six, and anyone could have made that mistake," Shawn insisted.

"The piranha tank?"

"Who knew they had teeth?"

"The tuna salad sandwich?"

"I thought leaving it in the sun would grill it! You love grilled tuna."

Gus laughed, shaking his head.

"I don't know how I've survived around you for this long."

"Sheer, dumb luck," Shawn agreed, settling back into his pillow.

He closed his eyes again, for a moment forgetting about the pain. For a moment, just not thinking about anything at all…

The two sat in comfortable silence, until Shawn couldn't take it anymore.

"She's not a match, Gus."

"What?"

"My Mom. Her test results just came back a few minutes ago. She's not a match."

"What does that mean?"

Gus was trying to sound cool, unaffected. But Shawn knew better. He kept his eyes closed so he wouldn't have to see that same damn pitying look on his face, too.

"Well, it means that technically my Dad's wrong when he says I have more of her in me than him. I don't have much of either, apparently."

"Shawn."

"I can't get the bone marrow transplant, Gus. I'll keep up with the chemo...but it's not enough. It's not enough."

"Oh."

"You can go now. If you want."

Shawn stretched out and put his arms behind his head, holding his breath.

Waiting to hear the door close behind Gus.

But the door didn't close.

He opened one eye halfway.

Gus was still sitting on the edge of the bed, staring blankly at the carpet.

"Gus. Really. You can go."

"Shawn, you know I'm not going anywhere."


	7. Chapter 7

Juliet felt like she was twelve years old again.

She sat in the driveway for a full twenty minutes, clutching the steering wheel for no particular reason.

_What am I supposed to say? "Hey, Mr. Spencer! Can Shawn come out and play?"_

_Of course he can't come out and play._

_He's dying._

As soon as the thought struck her, she forced it out of her mind.

_No._

_This was a mistake._

_I should just go…_

_Why am I even here?_

She started the engine and threw it into reverse.

_I should just go._

Before she could back out of the driveway and just keep on going, however, the door swung open and Shawn was suddenly in the seat beside her.

At least, she thought it was Shawn.

It looked more like his ghost; pale, hollow-cheeked, and still bald.

She was too startled to say anything.

She didn't have to.

"Drive," Shawn ordered quietly.

She just nodded, and they were on their way.

For a long time, they didn't say anything. They just rode down the highway, the windows open, feeling the wind and sun on their faces.

"Where are we going?" She asked finally.

"I don't care."

"Me, either."

She was surprised that she meant it.

There wasn't anywhere she wanted to go.

At this moment, the only place she wanted to be was right there. In that car. One sidelong glance at Shawn, his head resting against the seat and his arm stretched out the window, and she knew he felt the same way.

"I only have a quarter tank left."

"That's enough."

"Okay."

"I miss this," Shawn sighed. "The road…the wind…I haven't been able to ride my bike in months."

"I'm sorry."

"Don't say it, Jules. You're my one hope. The one person I know who hasn't burst into tears and tried to write me a eulogy on the spot. If you cave now, I'm sunk."

"I won't say it."

"Good."

She pressed the gas to the floor, and Shawn seemed to relax even more. He turned his face to the window, as if trying to soak up the wind.

"I know you got tested," he said finally.

"You said not to say it."

"But you did."

"Of course."

"Thanks."

"It cuts both ways, Shawn. If I'm not allowed to write your eulogy, you can't start with the goodbye crap. If you do, I swear I'll write the best darn eulogy you've ever heard! They'll be demanding you be canonized when I'm through!"

"Okay, okay. Deal," Shawn agreed.

They both smiled to themselves, peering at each other out of the corners of their eyes.

They continued to drive until the car began to sputter and Juliet was forced to pull over and fill the tank.

Neither of them spoke another word.

They didn't have to.


	8. Chapter 8

Even with the two additional people living there, Henry's house was quieter than usual.

Eerily quiet.

It seemed to be some tacit understanding among the family that they would only speak when absolutely necessary.

And they never talked about the one thing that was always on their minds.

These days, Henry spent most of his time in the garage, doing whatever he could to avoid being in the house.

Today, he was fixing his truck.

At first, he pretended not to notice when Mel came in, hoping she would take the hint and just leave.

She didn't.

"I'm going to run to the store. Shawn's feeling a little better and wanted to try to eat something. Did you need anything?"

"No. Thanks."

He dropped his wrench back into the toolbox, grabbed the small rubber mallet, and continued working under the hood.

"I figured he'll need all the strength he can get before he starts the chemo again. He'll be too sick to eat then," Mel continued.

"Uh-huh."

She just didn't get it today.

She stood there, staring at him, apparently waiting for sort of response. Henry kept his head in the engine, waiting her out.

She didn't leave.

"Henry, what are you doing?"

"Putting in a new alternator. Well, I'm still taking out the old one. It won't budge."

"What's wrong with your alternator?"

"Nothing."

He dropped the mallet on the floor and slammed the hood down.

"There's nothing wrong with the damn alternator, Mel."

"I know. Henry, you can't avoid him forever."

"I can sure as hell try."

"No, Henry," Mel perched on the tool bench. "I mean you don't have forever to avoid him."

"What the hell is this?"

"Life. This is life. Deal with it."

"Don't give me that!"

Henry threw open the hood again and banged away viciously at the alternator.

"What the hell do you know about dealing with life?" He seethed between metallic clangs.

"You're not the one who was here. You don't remember his first broken bone. I do, Mel. I watched the doctor set it. It was 1986. He took a diving header into second base in his first, and last, Little League game ever. Like he thought he was Pete Rose or something."

"I remember."

"No, you remember him telling you about it. You remember seeing the cast. I remember the sound the bone made when it snapped in half. I remember the look on his face as I held him down so the doctor could poke and prod it without Shawn punching or kicking him. I remember every single one of the 213 times he's told me he hates me because I won't let him hurt, maim or kill himself in some asinine way. And I remember the only time I've ever seen that boy cry. Four months ago, when he came over and told me he had leukemia. So you'll forgive me, Mel, if watching my son slowly die while I stand helplessly by is a memory I'd prefer not to have. I have enough memories as it is."

The alternator finally came loose and Henry ripped it out, throwing it against the wall.

"You'll forgive me if I spend my time working on something I can actually fix."

Mel stood up slowly and made her way to the door.

"Maybe this isn't about you, Henry. Maybe, for once…this isn't about your memories of Shawn. Maybe this is about his memories of you."


	9. Chapter 9

Shawn stared at the ceiling, willing himself to count the raised bumps.

Anything to distract himself from the week and a half of Hell he had just endured.

The call had come late on a Wednesday night…was it really almost two weeks ago?

"Mr. Spencer, we have a possible match for you in one of the international bone marrow donor registries. It's not perfect…but it's close. Can you come in tomorrow for some more tests, and we'll begin the transplant process?"

Of course, he had immediately agreed.

For the first time in two months, he actually allowed himself to think, to hope, that maybe he would be alive in a year.

Maybe, just maybe, he might even be alive in five years….

Maybe…

Of course, what he didn't realize at the time was that by the end of the following week, he would actually be praying for death.

The horrors began almost the moment he stepped foot in the hospital the next morning. His life suddenly became a blur of tests, pain, anxiety, exhaustion, and crippling nausea.

Before he could get the transplant, he had to undergo three days of intense chemo to kill as much of his remaining marrow as possible. By the end of it, he was too tired to move, too sick to think, and every time he turned around someone in a white lab coat was jabbing him, sticking him, poking him or telling him what could, and probably would, go wrong.

"There is always the possibility that your body will reject the new marrow because it's not a perfect match."

"Even if the transplant is successful, there is no guarantee the leukemia won't recur later."

"After the transplant, you will have to be in isolation for at least four days. Your immune system is about to be severely compromised, and you'll be susceptible to all kinds of infections and diseases."

That's where he was now.

In a sterile room.

Completely alone.

The transplant itself had gone fine, but it was only Day 2 in isolation and he was already going out of his mind. He had already read the few magazines he had been allowed to bring a dozen times each. He could talk to the nurses who came in every hour to take his vitals, but they were dull. What he really needed was to talk to Gus, but all visitors were strictly prohibited.

Even Gus.

"Mr. Spencer, I don't think you realize how serious this is," Dr. Hastings told him, scribbling on his chart. "You have a fever, which can be deadly to someone whose immune system is in shambles. You can't be exposed to the germs."

So, for hours on end, Shawn lay alone on the bed and stared at the ceiling.

Counting the raised bumps.

Thinking, but not too hard.

It was still too scary to think hard.

_What if my body rejects it?_

_What if it comes back?_

_What if I get an infection?_

Shawn didn't really become overly concerned, however, until his fever refused to subside.

The nurses suddenly became less friendly and more business-like. They frowned and furrowed their brows as they took his pulse, blood pressure and temperature.

Something was definitely wrong.

Dr. Hastings started coming by every half hour, reading and scribbling furiously on Shawn's chart.

"Am I okay?" Shawn asked, the knot in his stomach growing by the second.

"I'm concerned about the fever," the doctor admitted. "It should be going down, Mr. Spencer. I'm afraid you're not going home the day after tomorrow. You're not going anywhere until it's gone."

"How long will that take?"

"As long as it doesn't get worse, a few more days."

"And if it does get worse?"

Dr. Hastings didn't respond. He just replaced the chart on the foot of the bed and left.

Once again, Shawn was completely alone.

He glanced down at the magazines he had left scattered across the floor.

Slowly, deliberately, he gathered them up and began to flip through them. His eyes scanned the pictures at lightning speed, his fingers ripping pages out seemingly at random. He worked furiously at this task for hours, beads of sweat breaking out across his face and back with the effort. The nurses tried to ask him what he was doing, but Shawn just ignored them and kept working at ripping pages, throwing them on the floor, and ripping them again.

Finally, he seemed to be done with…whatever he was doing.

At least, the nurses could only assume he was done. He had grabbed a handful of the scraps and crammed them into a small envelope, leaving the rest of the shredded magazines in a pile on the floor.

Then, still clutching the envelope in his sweaty palms, he had collapsed back into the bed.

By now, his fever was 103.

The next morning, it was 104. By noon, he had fallen into a fever-induced delirium; kicking all the sheets off the bed and thrashing around the bare mattress, rolling in puddles of his own sweat and muttering incoherently under his breath.

The nurses tried everything, but nothing could calm him.

Nothing could break the fever.

And no one could pry that plain, white envelope out of his hand.

He had scrawled something across the front in ink, which was now badly smudged, though still somewhat legible.

_Jules---My Goodbye Crap._


	10. Chapter 10

After an hour of watching through the window to the room as Shawn thrashed and writhed, Henry couldn't bear it anymore.

He grabbed a surgical mask from the nurse's station and opened the door to the sterile room.

"Henry! Don't!" Mel almost screamed, grabbing his arm. "He could die! The germs..!"

"Open your eyes!" Henry growled, shaking her off. "He's dying now!"

He slammed the door closed behind him and practically ran to the bed. He grabbed Shawn's wrists and pinned them down, trying to keep him still.

_God! He's burning up!_

Shawn's eyes shot open, wild and unfocused. He looked right past Henry, like he couldn't even really see him, continuing to kick and groan.

_He has that same look in his eye…like when he was a kid… when I held him down while the doctor set the bone…_

_"He's just a kid, Mr. Spencer. He's scared. Talk to him…let him know everything is okay.."_

_Let him know everything is okay…_

_What did I say to him…?_

Shawn's feet were flailing wildly, trying to break free of Henry's grasp.

_What the hell did I say to him?_

Suddenly, the words came back.

As if he was pulling them from the air, or from some place inside him long forgotten.

"If you can keep your head when all about you

Are losing theirs and blaming it on you,

If you can trust yourself when all men doubt you,

But make allowance for their doubting too;

If you can wait and not be tired by waiting,

Or being lied about, don't deal in lies,

Or being hated don't give way to hating,

And yet don't look too good, nor talk too wise"

Shawn's wrists suddenly went limp. Henry paused and slowly let them go, ready to pin them down again if he needed to.

He pressed on, the memories of that day so long ago flooding back.

The thoughts of a future without Shawn nearly paralyzing him.

"If you can dream—and not make dreams your master;

If you can think—and not make thoughts your aim,

If you can meet with Triumph and Disaster

And treat those two impostors just the same;

If you can bear to hear the truth you've spoken

twisted by knaves to make a trap for fools,

Or watch the things you gave your life to, broken,

And stoop and build 'em up with worn-out tools:

If you can make one heap of all your winnings

and risk it on one turn of pitch-and-toss,

And lose, and start again at your beginnings

And never breathe a word about your loss;"

Henry paused again, taking another deep breath.

Shawn was shaking, his bloodshot eyes still gazing emptily at the ceiling.

But he was breathing easier.

Henry closed his eyes and let the words flow, losing himself in the cadence.

"If you can force your heart and nerve and sinew

To serve your turn long after they are gone,

And so hold on when there is nothing in you

Except the Will which says to them: "Hold on!"

If you can talk with crowds and keep your virtue,

Or walk with Kings—nor lose the common touch,

If neither foes nor loving friends can hurt you,

If all men count with you, but none too much;

If you can fill the unforgiving minute

with sixty seconds' worth of distance run,

Yours is the Earth and everything that's in it,"

Henry opened his eyes and gazed down at Shawn, his hand instinctively touching the crown of his head.

"And—which is more—you'll be a Man, my son."


	11. Chapter 11

Juliet was drowning in paperwork.

She hated paperwork.

Unfortunately, she couldn't leave until it was done…

She sighed and dropped her head on her desk, just wanting the day to finally be over.

"Long day, Jules?" A voice from above her asked.

She dropped her pen and looked up in astonishment.

"Shawn!"

She couldn't help herself. She broke into a wide smile and jumped up, wrapping her arms around him.

"You're back!"

"Yeah, yeah, yeah," he rolled his eyes.

But he didn't pull away from the hug.

She stepped back and looked at him.

He was still thin, and his cheeks remained more hollow than usual, but his hair had started to grow back, at least.

"How do you feel?"

"Better. Not great…but better."

"And…the leukemia…"

"It hasn't come back yet. It might someday…but I can't live in the future. Not when the present is finally so damn good."

She laughed and sat back down.

"Did the Chief give you a case?"

"Yeah…some arson thing."

"Oh, right. Detective Lassiter is working on that one."

"Lassie? Really?" Shawn grinned, arching his eyebrows evilly. "This will be fun."

"Don't piss him off, Shawn. He's been in a mood lately."

"When isn't he in a mood? The man lives in Mood."

"I mean it," Juliet warned.

Shawn just shrugged and held up the file he was carrying.

"I just stopped by to pick up the file on the case. I'll see you around."

"Wait!" Juliet called after him, pulling something out of her desk.

It was a small, white envelope.

She tossed it to Shawn.

"What is this?" She asked.

"I don't know."

She pointed to the writing scrawled across the front.

"You wrote that. What does it mean?"

"I don't know!" Shawn insisted. "I don't remember it. Where did you get it?"

"Your Dad found it in your hospital room, under the bed. He gave it to me."

"You mean it's from when I had a fever of 104 and almost died? Jules, I was delusional. I don't even remember it."

She searched his eyes discriminatingly.

"You're a liar!"

"I am not!"

She grabbed the envelope back and ripped it open, spilling the magazine scraps all over the desk.

"Look at it! It's so random! What does it mean?"

Shawn smiled knowingly, but shook his head.

"I can't tell you. It's too stupid…I thought I was dying…"

"Shawn!"

He sighed and arranged the scraps, then stepped back and showed Juliet.

"Look."

She looked down and gasped. Looking up at her was a face. A small girl's face, assembled from bits and pieces of other faces.

"What is it?"

"Do you really want to know?"

"Yes!"

"It's…our daughter, Jules. Well, at least, what I always thought she would look like. See…she has your hair, your eyes…my nose."

"What's wrong with my nose?"

"Nothing…she just has to have something of mine…I wanted you to have a picture of her…you know, in case you never got to meet her."

Jules stared down at it, speechless.

Before she could say anything, Lassiter approached.

Shawn quickly withdrew his hand, which somehow had found its way into holding Juliet's.

"Spencer," Lassiter nodded.

"Hiya, Lassie."

"You're back."

"Apparently."

He didn't actually smile…but Shawn noticed a glint in Lassie's eyes.

He didn't mention it.

"I hear you're on the arson case, too," Shawn said.

"I am. Just stay out of my way."

"Of course," Shawn lied. "I'll stay out of your way."

He flashed Lassie a sly smile, winked at Jules, and was gone.

As soon as they were sure he was out of earshot, Juliet turned to Lassiter.

"Why didn't you tell him?"

"Tell him what?"

"You know."

Lassiter glared.

"Are you joking, O'Hara? You know how irritating he is now. Do you have any idea how obnoxious he would be if he thought he actually owed me one? I'd never get rid of him!"

Lassiter snorted and turned on his heel, marching away. Juliet watched him leave, shaking her head quietly to herself.

"What is it with the men around here?"


End file.
